Flat 12. A great, concrete slab protruding from the ground like a grey beacon of despair. Inside this slab there is sixty small and crappy apartments, filled with losers, loners, slackers and junkies.

Right now, behind the peeling green paint of door number 55, pacing up and down his living room, is Danny. Danny is a struggling writer who is trying to write a book about a struggling writer. This idea is what gets him out of bed. His parents think he's deluded but Danny's convinced this idea will change his life. He works on it religiously, and his routine is strict and regimented. The pacing, which he's doing right now, is what he does every morning, and every morning, as he paces, he eats toast. The toast is always the same: no butter, dollops of strawberry jam. He paces, eats, paces back, and eats again. On this particular morning something is different. Writers block has struck and Danny is frustrated. The hand holding the toast is shaking and Danny, out of sheer anger, tosses this piece of jam covered toast out of the open window and into the despondent gloom of the morning time.

Taking a long drag of his cigarette, the occupant of number 47 leans out of his window. His rottwieler, Tyson, watches him carefully. The man is big, with thick, muscular arms wrapped in tattoos. He takes another drag and watches the world below. It's a grey morning. He looks into the distance and stares at the huge, square block of impenetrable granite that had been his home for the past eight years. In truth, he's been in and out of prison since the age of fifteen. The image of his stepfather beating up his mother still infuriates him. Prison has made him strong, solid and impervious, just like the granite walls that housed him.

He crushes the cigarette between his fingers and flicks it away. Something sharp catches him in the eye. Snarling, he wipes crust and jam from his face and catches sight of a partially eaten piece of toast lying on his carpet. Already angry, the man storms from his flat, determined to smash down every door until he finds the cunt who threw the toast. He leaves his door wide open and Tyson, the rottweiler, he takes full advantage of this moment of freedom.

His satisfaction was shorter this time. First it had been three months, then one. Now, after only two weeks, he is prowling once more.

He sits in his car, heart pounding, sweat gathering above his top lip. In the passenger seat are the sweets he has just bought. Cliche, yes, but they work.

Every time he sees one alone he grabs himself intimitely, but they're not alone for long; parents and teachers are never far behind. He curses in frustration as the last one walks away with its parent.

He starts the engine and the red car pulls away. His hands are tight on the steering wheel. His head hurts. He creeps past other schools and play parks.

He's becoming frantic. The feeling of emptiness that only they can fill is becoming unbearable. He feels hungry, thirsty and sick all at the same time.

He slams on the breaks. A rottweiler shoots past the front of his car followed by an anguished young woman. He watches as the rottweiler attacks an elderly lady.

He doesn't help.

He doesn't care.

At social gatherings, Mr and Mrs Doe were a picture of happiness. But, over the rugged welcome mat and into their number 52 flat, that picture of happiness is swiftly torn up.

Mrs Doe had just come off the phone with Mr Doe who stated quite clearly that he was coming home early and his breakfast better be ready when he gets in.

Mrs Doe hastened to oblige and soon had bacon, egg, sausage, tomato and two slices of buttered bread, plated up and sitting on the table just as Mr Doe stepped over the threshold.

He enters the kitchen, spots his breakfast and growls, 'Milk.' Mrs Doe flinches. How could she forget the milk?

Mr Doe sits down and she shakily puts the glass of milk on the table. Mr Doe waves her away and she does so without question.

She picks up his coat and straightens up his shoes. Then she hears it. The scraping of chair legs against the kitchen floor. Something has happened.

Mrs Doe straightens up and turns around. Mr Doe is standing in the doorway, glass of milk in hand. 'This milk is warm,' he sneers.

Mrs Doe is trembling. Mr Doe smashes the glass against the wall. He unbuckles his belt and slides it off.

'Bedroom!' He snaps.

Mrs Doe begs and cries.

'Do as I say,' Mr Doe snarls. But she's frozen in fear. Mr Doe takes the back of his hand across her face. He grabs her by the hair and pins her to the wall.

'One thing, you stupid bitch!' Mr Doe gathers saliva in his mouth and launches it into Mrs Doe's face.

He throws her to the floor and kicks her ribs.

'Lick it up!' Mr doe orders. Mrs Doe sticks out her tongue and laps at the warm milk.

Emma watches her mummy watch the grey sky. She's wearing her favourite pink wellies and her favourite pink raincoat. Emma hates the rain but she knows today is the day when mummy talks to the lady who gives mummy money to put light in the light bulbs and heat in the radiator and food in the fridge and cartoons on the television.

But mummy has a frown on her face as she looks at the sky. Mummy looks at her and says it's too wet and maybe they'll phone the lady and go tomorrow.

Her mummy turns and opens the door to the big flat, but a big, huge, scary dog comes bounding out and Emma is snatched aside by her mummy before she's eaten.

Emma watches the dog dash across the rain soaked street.

'Wait here,' her mummy says, sprinting after the dog. Emma watches her mummy wrestle with the big, ugly dog as it attacks a lady that looks like her nana.

Emma is scared but then a red car pulls in front of her and she can't see her mummy anymore.

A man with glasses speaks out the window to her.

'Quick,' he says, 'get in before the dog comes.'

Emma doesn't move.

'Do you like sweets?' The man says. 'I have a big bag full.'

Emma loves sweets. She opens the door and is greeted with a big, blue lollipop. She smiles and climbs in. She closes the door.

'Seatbelt,' the man smiles.

The red car pulls away.

The huge, tattooed brute hammers on the door of number 49. There's no answer.

He's fuming. He's determined to find the prick who almost blinded him. He hears a scream. Then there's an angry voice. Something stirs in his mind. He sees his stepfather towering over his mother.

He's filled with a terrific anger.

He presses his ear to the door of number 52.

'You disgusting, horrible, repulsive creature!'

The door splinters and buckles under his immense weight. He tumbles into the flat.

There's a man standing over his wife who turns and looks on in horror. The tattooed man sees the woman crumpled on the floor. He drops the man with one punch and immediately lays into him.

The man is limp and doesn't fight back but the tattooed brute continues to pound him. Blood splays everywhere and the noise of his skull cracking can be heard over his wives anguished screams as she tries to haul her husbands attacker away.

The tattooed psycho thinks only of his poor mother as he beats the life out the scum underneath him. He doesn't even feel the knife slide into his side time and time again.

He is suddenly dizzy and slumps to the side. Blood pumps from his body. He gasps for breath. The last thing he sees is the woman he saved, holding a blood-soaked knife and crying uncontrollably.

Behind door 55, Danny is pacing again. The writers block which struck yesterday is still bothering him. He's eating a piece of toast, same as yesterday, no butter and dollops of strawberry jam.

Again, something is different, because today, someone is knocking on his door. He is surprised to see a police officer standing there.

'Sorry to disturb you,' the officer says.

He holds up a photograph of a little blonde girl opening Christmas presents.

'This little girl went missing yesterday,' the officer says, 'have you seen her?'

She's wearing heels that are far too high, and a dress so tight that it almost forces her boobs to flop out. She's applied so much fake tan I'm surprised she's not glowing. Her hair is so unnaturally blonde that I'm afraid to run my hand through it.

Right now we're standing on a street corner and she's bashing buttons on her phone; texting, as usual. We're waiting on one of her friends. He's a gay guy called Peter a... Continue reading...

About Me

M.W. Johnston

Twisted tales of twisted things I guess, taken from my unpublished and unfinished book of short stories aptly named, 'Toilet'. So named because most of these twisted tales of twisted things were dreamed up while I was unglamorously perched upon the throne. Enjoy.....